


stardust

by leitmotifs (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fallen Angels, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/leitmotifs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August, 1968: Niall dies, but he never really goes away. As an angel, he keeps watch over his boyfriend from up above. </p><p>May, 1969: Niall watches his boyfriend commit suicide. </p><p>February, 1994: Harry Styles is born into the world, and Niall is convinced that this is the same Harry that he loved, all those years ago. </p><p>November, 2012: Niall Horan sacrifices his wings to fall back to earth. He remembers every detail of their past lives, from their meeting, to their first date, their first kiss, the first time "I love you"s slipped from their mouths. He wants to be with him again, if only for one more lifetime. </p><p>The only problem: Harry doesn't remember a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stardust

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by Ke$ha's Past Lives (which is a really pretty song that you should all listen to) as well as all the angel mythology. honestly, there is not enough angels and demons fic in this fandom, ahaha. not to mention, there are also references to TFIOS and (surprise!) Insidious 2. 
> 
> as a note, the majority of this first part is written in first person, but it does shift points of view at the end and the rest of the story will actually stay that way - that is, in third person. 
> 
> please don't kill me for starting another story i promise i'm working on ruin i pinKY SWEAR
> 
>  
> 
> [wattpad](http://www.wattpad.com/story/8919862-stardust-narry)  
> [tumblr](http://justlogorrheic.tumblr.com/post/63749259269/stardust-harry-niall-1)

I’ve never been good at writing letters. Actually, I’ve never been good at writing in general. I’m better at talking – and based on how many times you used to nudge me and tell me to shut up, I think we could agree on that, huh?

It’s nice here. Quiet and peaceful, even. I’d say it’s a little too peaceful. Everything’s so neat, too. Every morning I wake up, and my bed is made. Remember how I was OCD about the sheets and wrinkling them? I kind of miss the messiness. I kind of miss you.

 

 

I play our song sometimes, the one I wrote when I was half drunk and the one you helped me learn how to play on the piano. Remember? I told you that I was so much better at the guitar and that I’d just butcher it on the keys, but you told me that they were practically the same thing. Then we butchered the song together. But that was okay, because we sat and we laughed and your fingers slid over mine and everything was beautiful.

Funny little thing – I think my hair’s gonna be perpetually blond now. Saves me a lot of money from having to keep it re-dyed, huh? Funny how I used to hit you for calling me Blondie; I think I’m starting to miss it.

 

 

If I could feel one thing for one last time, it would be the way you’d curl up against me whenever we slept together. I can’t really call my bed here an actual bed, because that would imply that I get some sleep on it, and I don’t.

I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with it. Oh, right, there’s an empty space that’s supposed to be occupied by you.

Was that lame? Sorry.

 

 

Today I was thinking of stuff. I remembered that one night when one of your friends dragged us to a bar and then we had to sit through an awkward hour of him making out with his boyfriend. They were always constantly whispering things like “always,” so I decided that we needed an “always” word, too.

I suggested “frick.” And you laughed and you wrapped your arms around me and kissed my neck and whispered, “Frick, Niall.”

I think you might have been a little drunk. I’m glad I wasn’t, because I remember every second of that night. Sometimes I say “frick” to myself and then laugh, but there’s no one there to say it back.

 

 

I played our song again today. For a second, I thought you recognized it, but then you just shook your head and moved on.

I miss you. Would it be selfish of me to hope that you miss me, too?

 

 

Do you remember when we went to that butterfly garden? We sat on one of the benches, and there was a rose bush next to us and on one of its leaves was a caterpillar.

“You’re my caterpillar, Ni,” you told me. “I reckon you’re gonna go through all sorts of changes, but all the way through when you turn into a butterfly, I’m gonna love you.”

“Are you basically telling me that I’ll be stuck with you for a while?” I’d asked.

“Yep. Forever,” you’d told me, and I’d pretended to make a face, but really, I didn’t mind the thought.

 

 

I met this lady who really likes calligraphy, and I sat down with her for lunch and watched her practice her strokes. We talked for a while, but I think I got a little too distracted with staring.

She ended her capital H’s with these flourish marks that curl upward. I wasted a bunch of paper trying to practice and do it just like she did, although not with a lot of success. I’d like to be a professional love note writer. Do you think that’s a thing?

I got sidetracked decorating my letters with curlicues. They remind me of your hair.

 

 

You gave me a pretty good scare today, jeez. Watch left and right before you cross the road, okay?

 

 

If I could relive one thing, it would be our first date. You spilled coke down my shirt and I spilled popcorn on your lap and we got kicked out of the theater for “disturbing the peace,” but I loved it anyway.

I remember what you asked me. You said, “Ni, do you believe in love at first sight?” and I said, “No, but I believe in infatuation at first sight,” and you asked if I was with you, and I replied yes. You pretended to be hurt, so I added that I also believed in that infatuation can give away to love.

You said, “Well here, let me help speed up the process,” and you kissed me and I very gladly kissed back.

Sometimes I see you walking past that theater, and sometimes I see you stop and stare. Sometimes I wonder if you think about that time too, and sometimes I hope you do. But more than that, I just want you to be happy, and if it means moving on from me, so be it. Just don’t forget me, okay?

 

 

Whoever says, _They go to a better place_ is a liar. I sit with my fingers on the piano keys and I play the song that’s been stitched on my heart and I wish that you would just turn, that you would hear and see, because—I’m still here, Harry, I’m still here and sometimes I see you cry and I would give anything to be able to be next to you.

I hope you know you aren’t alone. I could hold you for a million years and just— _be with you_ , either sitting under the stars together or on that ratty couch in our apartment with your arm around me and our legs overlapping each other’s.

I miss you. I didn’t think it was possible, but I miss you to the point where it hurts. I thought I would be okay but I must have given myself too much credit because I’m really, really not.

 

 

Please don’t do it, Harry.

I know what you have under your pillows, and—please, don’t do it.

 

 

We met in 1966 and I remember that it was the best year of my life. I didn’t think I’d ever find anyone, you know, because people always told me that I’m too loud, too brash, too impulsive, and that no one would want someone like me.

I wasn’t sure what you saw in me and to this day, I still don’t know. But I don’t regret a thing.

Does time pass as fast for you as it does for me?

 

 

You have friends and you have your family and you have a whole life ahead of you. I stepped into our room for the first time today and I saw you sitting there, holding something in your hands, and I begged you to listen.

You said something. You said, “I can’t stop thinking about you. Everything reminds me of you.” You said, “There are times when I can swear that I hear our song playing, like you’re sitting behind that goddamn piano and singing to me, but I look over and it’s just me.” You said, “I—I can’t remember how our song goes, Ni. Come back and teach me. Please.”

It’s not worth it, Harry, I promise. You’re so bright. You’re so loved.

You said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

 

 

I stood by the bedside and let the doctors rush around me. I looked into your eyes and touched your cheek and whispered the lines to our song and I could swear, in that moment, you _saw_ me.

I watched you die today.

 

 

They say that not everyone comes here. Life’s a cycle and sometimes a few get spat out of it – that’s me and everyone here, I guess. I wonder if that means I can see you again soon.

 

 

You once told me, “You’re an angel, Ni.”

You should come see my wings now. I think we’d have a good laugh.

 

 

I watched you rebirth today.

 

 

I don’t think I can even begin to explain how I know, because I just do.

How long has it been now, nearly fifty years? Time is a blur here. It feels like one second, I’m watching you learning how to walk and when I blink, you’re kissing your first girl under a tree, of all places.

You have brown hair this time, Harry, and curls that look perpetually windswept. Your eyes are green just as they used to be, except now they seem a shade brighter. You walk with a sort of confidence that I never saw, and your voice is tinged with an accent, you’re right handed, and your skin is imprinted with intricate designs of ink.

You— you’re different. But when you smile, the whole room still lights up.

(Maybe that's it. Maybe that's how I know it's you.)

 

 

Your parents make the decision; your name is still Harry.

The coincidence makes me laugh.

 

 

There’s an edge here, a place where _up_ stops and if I so choose, I can plummet back down to earth. They tell me there have been incidents before. They say that it’s the most painful thing, to fall and to have your wings be ripped out.

But you’re _there_. You’re there again and the way we ended last time was nothing short of unfair, and I’ve said over and over again: I’d give anything just to spend one more life with you.

 

 

“He won’t remember you,” one of them told me. “He’s a different person now, leading a different life, and it isn’t fair for you to do this to him.”

Would it really be selfish of me to do this?

I don’t—I don’t care if none of our past matters anymore, I don’t care if my wings get taken away, I don’t care about anything of those things. I just want to be near you again.

I don’t care if you don’t remember me, but—

I’ve seen you, Harry. I see the way you take care to make the bed every morning. I see the way you falter by a piano, fingers stuttering on the keys as if trying to remember a forgotten song. I see the butterfly inked on your chest and surely that means _something._

I’m standing just a little ways from the edge and for the first time since I got here, I’m terrified of the thousands of miles between me and the world below.

I’m going to jump. I’m going to do it. I don’t care that I’m throwing my eternity away, because what the hell is a life worth living without you anyway, and I keep thinking of the way I once told you, “I’m infatuated with you,” and the way I never got to finish, “but now I’m in love with you,” and the green of your eyes and the lilt of your smile and the sound of your v

 

* * *

 

 

Afternoons in England seem to be perpetually gloomy. He hears a lot of complaints about it, mostly from tourists, and he just kind of rolls his eyes at them.

Then again, he’s grown up here all his life, and he’s used to the notion of never leaving home without a coat.

His cell phone reads two missed calls from his sister, and he makes a mental note to call her once he gets back home. It’s been half a year since he moved out, and there’s never a day when he doesn’t feel the pang of missing someone.

Overhead, thunder rumbles. The twenty-one-year old curses under his breath, picking up his pace; he may have had a coat, but they did nothing to protect someone against a thunderstorm.

He hurries through the park, regretting that his apartment is so far away. In his haste, his foot catches on a rock and he goes sprawling, notebook and pencils flying to the grass.

“Way to go, Styles,” he chides himself, thanking whatever higher being above that no one saw that embarrassing fall. He climbs to his feet and walks over to pick up his things, and—

He sees something behind a bush, and that something looks suspiciously like a hand.

Alarmed, he tucks his notebook under his arm and skirts around the bush.

There’s a boy there.

“Hey,” he says, foregoing his pants and dropping to a kneel next to the unconscious blond. He takes the boy by the shoulders and tries shaking him. “Hey, man, are you okay?”

There’s blood on the grass too, and that’s when he realizes that the entire back of the boy’s shirt is stained red. Immediately, he searches for the wound to put pressure on it, but strangely enough, there’s not one to be found.

He tosses his things to the ground and slips an arm under the boy’s back, the other one cradling the crook of his knees, and just as he’s about to lift him, the stranger’s eyes flutter open, and they’re so—

Blue.

The boy’s lips part, and he utters: “ _Harry_.”

And then he goes limp.

Harry blinks, confused, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it; there’s an unconscious boy in his arms, and he sees no other choice but to pick him up and start walking to the nearest hospital.


End file.
